


And so it goes

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Anger, Discussions of death, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: Picks up right at the end of 5.24





	1. Chapter 1

Fear, already well seated in the pit of her stomach after the night's events, leapt upward and sent a prickling chill through her. Glass shards ... splintered wood ... beyond the broken doors, his room lay in shambles. 

She turned and ran up the stairs. 

Breathless, Joan pulled her phone from her bag, checked quickly for messages then called his number. Her hands trembled. The thought that he'd been harmed pushed her to the edge of the precipice she'd avoided until now. 

No answer. His outgoing message was curt: "Leave a message if you must. I'd prefer a text."

"Sherlock, where are you? Call me. Just let me know you're okay."

She hung up and texted the same message to him as she walked towards his desk. She rummaged until she found his tablet, and started the "find my phone" app. Her breathing was becoming erratic as the images of what might have happened downstairs started forcing themselves upon her. 

The app beeped and zoomed in on the map of Brooklyn, then honed in on to their brownstone address. She stared at it, confused, wondering if he lay hurt somewhere in the house. She hadn't heard his phone ... the roof perhaps. 

She started for the stairs just as the front door opened and a weary Sherlock ambled in.

Joan rushed at him stopping a foot or so before him, examining his face and stance. Eyes locked. The look of fear and worry on her face, the intensity of it, was sufficient to cement that which he had been reflecting upon during his walk back to the house. He would not to tell her, not yet. Watson had enough on her plate without an extra helping of his problems. 

She finally spoke; she controlled the panic but could not mask the concern, "What happened downstairs? Are you alright?"

His tone was nonchalant, carrying the implication she was being overly dramatic. "I just had a ... got a bit upset. Sorry. I'll clean it up." He turned away from her, worried she might read too much on his face. 

Fear gave way to anger and Joan forced him to look at her, "A bit upset? You destroyed your bedroom! Why?"

Sherlock would not tell her the truth but he also would not actively lie to her. "Your sudden concern for me is touching but I am quite tired. If you are through with your interrogation, I'm going to go lay down."

"What is going on with you? Have I not been paying enough attention to you, is that what spurred your temper tantrum?"

"My well being does not require your attention. You give yourself too much credit." He looked down at her. "Speaking of credit, congratulations on bringing down SBK and Tyus Wilcox singlehandedly, partner." The last word drawled out hinted at sarcasm. "Marcus called and filled me in." 

"That's it then? Your nose got bent out of joint because I wasn't consulting with you, so you threw a fit?" She menacingly stepped closer to him. "You've shown zero interest in the case or in Shinwell or in supporting me in any manner. So you know what, fine, go break things, go sulk, go sleep. I really don't care what you do." Seething, Joan abruptly walked away from him. At the moment, she truly didn't care one whit about Sherlock Holmes and his ego. She was going to bed. Adrenaline provided her just enough energy to get up the stairs. 

 

A relieved Sherlock didn't try to stop her. This would make it easier for her. If she hated him, perhaps she wouldn't feel the loss as deeply. The MRI results wouldn't be available until tomorrow but he'd done enough research to know the probable causes of his symptoms were serious. He could handle this on his own. Perhaps he'd take another trip to London. Watson had done quite well by herself the last time he went away. If she were angry enough perhaps she wouldn't care if he didn't return. The thought of facing what was to come without her frightened him, but in the long run it would be best for her. He'd rather she not witness his demise.


	2. Chapter 2

Midday sunlight splayed across her floor and bed. Even though she doubted anything could keep her from sleep, Joan moved determinedly with the last of her energy to pull curtains and close shutters, hoping, if not to darken, then at least to minimize the light. 

Remnants of anger rose within her as she began to undress. From Tyus, to El Halcón, to Sherlock, she had had enough of the human race, enough of the male ego in particular, to last her for awhile. She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her jacket, blouse, skirt, dropping each item onto the floor as she removed them. In disgust, she picked them all up and threw them onto the bedroom chair as if they carried the stench of all she'd been through these past few days. 

Finally in the comfort of her pajama shorts and tshirt, she crawled into her bed, immersed herself in the safety of the familiar, seeking the obliteration of memory and pain that sleep could temporarily provide her.

But while her body sought rest, her mind began to whirl; quietly, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. It crackled and sputtered as it rewound, replayed and analyzed over and over everything she wanted to forget. Thoughts and feelings pressed forward, pushing against her, prodding, refusing to let her find the peace she needed.

Something was wrong. 

The puzzle pieces did not fit together correctly. The image was askew. Something was wrong.... something was wrong... 

Sherlock had presented to her what he felt she would believe ... but it wasn't the truth. She knew him thoroughly, intimately, down to the snake tattoo on his hip and the story behind it. What he presented was not him. He did not go into rages because she solved a case. The opposite was true. He took a deep pride in her work. She once realized that if ever there'd be a way to seduce him it would be by besting him in solving a case. This was not her Sherlock. .... And then voluntarily laying down because he was tired? In the middle of the day? No! Something was definitely wrong.

Joan threw off the covers and sat at the side of the bed. She held onto herself for a moment, taking a breath and gathering the strength to confront him once more. She would not be able to rest until she knew what was going on.

 

He was sprawled out on his back, asleep on the library sofa. Joan sat on the ottoman and watched him, making sure he was truly asleep and not presenting her with another false image. Sherlock's phone lay on the floor beside him. With no qualms, she picked it up and put in his code to unlock it. She walked into the foyer with it, sat on the stairs and started scrolling through his emails, calendar and texts. He would do the same she told herself if the situation was reversed. 

She scrolled: an appointment at an imaging center at 8:00 this morning, a text to M.E. Hawes asking Eugene to call him, and a similar text to Mason ... all before dawn this morning. She moved on to his recent calls but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Mason stood with a stack of Midnight Ranger comic books in his hand. "Hi. Is Sherlock home?" His manner as always when dealing with her alone was a little self-conscious and timid.

"Yes, but he's asleep. Can I help?"

"I'm just returning these," he handed her the stack of comics. "And if you could give him a message, my mom says she wants to see him tomorrow morning at 9:30. She's cleared a spot for him to review the tests." Joan stared blankly at him and Mason smiled nervously. "She uh, ... she knew I was coming over so she asked me to tell him ... " He nodded and blinked a few times under her scrutiny, unsure why she was staring at him and not speaking.

Joan was busy connecting dots. Mason's mother was a doctor, a neurologist. Sherlock had been to an imaging center this morning ...

"Thank you, Mason. Tell your mother I will be there promptly at 9:30." Sherlock's voice at her shoulder made her jump. Mason looked relieved and took the opportunity to make his exit. Sherlock closed the door and Joan turned to face her partner. 

"I'll take those, thank you." He took the comics and his phone out of her hands and walked back into the library.


	3. Chapter 3

He walked to the middle of the room with the comic books in hand and stopped. Discreetly, his eyes scanned the corners of the room. She watched him. He turned and walked into the lockroom, aware of her eyes on him. 

Sherlock stopped by the desk and scanned the room quickly. He could not remember where he had stored the box containing the rest of the Midnight Ranger series. In frustration, he set the comic books on the desk. 

"The box is upstairs in the media room." Joan's voice carried the sentiments that he had wished so much to avoid hearing from her. Concern mixed with pity. He looked away, not acknowledging her statement. 

The sad whisper came next, "How long?" 

He turned abruptly and faced her; his demeanor challenging. "How long what?"

"The memory issues, when did they start?"

Sherlock stared at her long and hard but she would not back down. He did not want to have this conversation with her and chose offense as the best way out. "This is none of your concern." He tried to walk past her but Joan moved and blocked him.

"It very much is my concern. You're my partner." In bare feet she was a good foot or more shorter than him but made up for it in attitude. "Tell me what is going on. You had some sort of medical test this morning, I'm assuming an MRI, a brain scan, since you're seeing a neurologist..."

He cut her off. "Yes, yes ... a small child could have deduced as much. I had an MRI. Yes. I'm having memory issues. Fine. Happy now? Hmm?" He peered down his nose at her with cold detachment. "Just spare me your sudden flash of hypocritical concern. We live and work together, madam detective, and you've not put two and two together prior to this. I can handle this on my own. I don't need you." The hurt look on her face broke his heart but he could not back down. It was for her own good in the long run. She shouldn't be saddled with him again. 

Sherlock broke away from her gaze and walked past her. "The bees need tending to .... I'll be upstairs ... that is if I don't get lost on the way."

 

Joan stood frozen processing all he had said and the way he had said it. He was right and he had every right to be angry. Whatever was going on with him was serious enough to prod him to seek medical attention and she had not been concerned enough to notice. Not true, she had noticed he was off his game but had not cared enough to follow through on those concerns.

There was no basis for panic she reminded herself. Other than memory loss and one very violent outburst, she did not know his symptoms, had no real facts or test results. Yet the possibility was real. She could lose him. Hot tears brimmed. Joan swallowed back the bitter lump at her throat. Standing right beside him, she hadn't noticed his flailing. So intent was she on avenging the life of another man who fell victim to her lack of care that she almost lost Sherlock as well. 

The emotional turmoil on top of the stress and exhaustion left her weak. She needed darkness. She needed a corner into which she could disappear and let the darkness consume her. Away from everything and everyone and him, the latest addition to the many she had failed. 

Joan made her way down to the basement office. Keeping the lights off, she walked towards the back, into a dust filled corner, behind the broken screen and pots filled with the dry remnants of some experiment or other. Sitting on the crusted floor, knees bent and head in hands, the tears no longer waited for permission. Her body shook and she covered her mouth to mask the sobs, the cries for all she'd lost including herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat crosslegged in front of the hive. He let the dense buzzing of the bees encase him in a cocoon of static in hopes it would keep at bay the thoughts that attempted to infiltrate and burrow deep into his being. He had warned her a long time ago he was not a nice man. He was, in fact, a most horrible man and to prove it, with purpose and malice, he just lied to her and hurt her ...

He winced as the image of her face came back to him ... her jaw clenching, and her eyes ... her eyes clouding, turning away from him, trying not to show the injury his words inflicted. He had aimed his attack precisely, pushing it through the one small chink in her steely emotional armor. He accused her of negligence, of not caring, and used his knowledge of her past and her guilt, to reinforce his lies. 

Sherlock tried to rationalize his behavior, to convince himself it was for her own good, to protect her from the pain to come if she stayed with him. He was on his way to madness or dementia, his mind weakening by the minute, unsure of what was real or not. He wouldn't have her take on the caretaker role once more, didn't want her to see him fall apart.

He rocked as he attempted to sort his thoughts. Was he right? Was this callousness, this heartless pushing her away the best for both of them? Was he wrong? Was this just a part of whatever madness had grabbed hold of his mind, another symptom to add to the list? .... 

The answer came eventually, crystalline and clear. He needed to rectify the situation immediately. 

*******

Had it been hours or minutes, she wasn't sure.... Joan came back to herself empty, not knowing what to do or how to help him or herself. 

The scuffle of feet before her made her jump. His figure loomed above her. Silently, he bent and sat beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, mute, frightened of the impending moment, they stared straight ahead.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I lied." His confession was met with silence. "I didn't want you to see what was going on so I lied and hid and accused you for my shortcomings like a churlish child." His voice dropped to a whisper and cracked, "Even worse ... when you needed me most ... I failed you."

"Symptoms?" 

Her response was not what he expected. He stared straight ahead, not looking at her as he spoke. "Headaches, severe on occasion, lethargy, exhaustion, inability to focus, memory loss .... " Sherlock took a breath, "Vivid breaks from reality."

Her head whipped towards him, "Hallucinations?"

He nodded. "Mmmm.... The physical evidence of which you saw earlier today."

Joan's hand covered her eyes; clinical as she tried to remain, emotion welled up in her again. "God, how could I have not seen all this. I'm so sorry..."

"No. Stop." He would not have her suffer any more because of him. "I chose not to tell you. I chose to hide my symptoms, to lie. You've done more than enough, bore my problems as your own, my sobriety, my relapse, my father, Irene ..."

"Moriarty." She corrected him out of habit.

"Moriarty," he repeated. "It's enough. .... just enough. You shouldn't have to go through this. Without my ability to remember, to think, to rationalize, I am nothing. I don't want you seeing me laid bare, common .... I'm just hoping whatever it is is terminal and I die quickly."

Rage slowly built within her as he talked. Her words came with an icy edge. "How dare you? How dare you decide for me what I should and shouldn't feel or do? How low is your regard for me and for yourself that you think death is the solution? This all could be as simple as the symptoms of concussion and you are willing to throw me and our life together away?" She roughly wiped at the tears streaming down her face. "You are more than just a brain Sherlock. I love and value all of you from the little hair left on your head to how you whisk an egg ... all of you." 

Joan took a long a shaky breath before facing him and continuing. "You have no right, ... NO RIGHT ... to tell me how to feel or what to do. I will not leave you and you sure as hell are not leaving me. Do you understand me?" Her lasts words were yelled, rage having supplanted the icy edge.

Sherlock sat stunned, mouth open and blinking at the tears threatening in his own eyes. Awkwardly, he leaned towards her and gingerly at first put his arms around her. When she did not push him away, he brought her closer, hugged her tightly to him, his head at her neck. With equal fervor, she grabbed hold of him as if to never let go. 

In that darkened corner they held on, until their breaths synchronized, until a modicum of peace was restored between them.


End file.
